


Libretto

by MariaMediaOverThere



Series: Seungchuchu Week Vol. II [5]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Character's Name Spelled as Viktor, College AU, M/M, Musicals, Mutual Pining?, Pining, jj and seunggil are friends, sara and seunggil are friends, theatre nerd!Phichit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-19
Updated: 2017-10-19
Packaged: 2019-01-19 11:33:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12409545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MariaMediaOverThere/pseuds/MariaMediaOverThere
Summary: SeungchuchuWeek 2 Day 4: Thinking Out Loud – ShowtunesSeung-Gil's walls are too thin to keep him from meeting the snack that lives next door and sings original soundtracks too enthusiastically.





	1. Rising Action

 

 

Getting his own place was both a blessing and a curse.

 

On one hand, he was finally able to acquire the private space he had always longed for ever since he caught his brother riffling through his schoolbag for snacks in 5th grade. On the other, if Seung-Gil has to listen to the entire discography of Wicked one more time, he will punch his neighbor in the throat.

 

It’s not that his neighbor is completely off-key.

He reasons it could be worse. It’s just that the tenant next door is absolutely relentless- singing perhaps every hour of the day, as every character, in every key that his scale could muster.

 

 

One Day More from Les Miserables has like 15 singing characters in it, but somehow the next-door resident thinks he can do them all. What an idiot.

That’s exactly the three words that Seung-Gil wanted to scream at him through the walls- but it’s unlike him to be so vehement in his anger. He prefers being blasé. He prefers brooding and being passive-aggressive instead of confronting his annoying neighbor.

 

His earphones were bought for a reason, he decides, trying to drown out Rent with 9 hours of traffic noise.

 

 

However, when midterms rolled around and he was a victim to the sultry jazz of I Can Make You A Man (with a changed key! How dare he think he can usurp Tim Curry’s original composition?), Seung-Gil slams his textbook shut and stalks off towards the hall.

 

He’s actually never met the guy- and had never intended to. Dealing with people just takes so much out of him. So… unpredictable and unnecessary, Seung-Gil thinks with a sneer. But lo and behold, his left earbud had popped off- exposing the colored wires like viscera- and he realizes he couldn’t escape Rocky Horror Picture Show if he tried.

 

 

It takes 4 hard knocks before the guilty songster gives pause- followed by hurried footfalls. Seung-Gil rehearses his dressing-down in his head up until the door flies open and he’s got a different kind of dressing down in mind.

 

Maybe he should have just kept his irritation to himself, after all.

 

 

With smooth and dewy tan skin and dark lashes, his neighbor is nothing short of a porcelain doll, carefully and purposely painted on for maximum cuteness.

His shirt is white and much too big for him, red sparkly boots forming the ‘K’ in Kinky Boots. Despite the logical reality that he’s just wearing shorts and the shirt is just very long- Seung-Gil’s unconsciousness can’t seem to shake off the possibility that he’s not wearing pants- hence, fixates itself on the theatre nerd’s seemingly flawless legs.

 _Shit_.

He’s screwed.

 

 

Seung-Gil, for all his meticulous analytics on possible procedures (complaining to the manager, what to do if he gets in a physical altercation, poisoning….), he forgets to take into account that maybe, just maybe, his neighbor is a fucking snack.

 

 

“Oh, hello!” He greets, voice chipper and gray eyes sparkling. “Can I help you?”

 

 

In a fit of panic, Seung-Gil scraps his brain for anything- anything at all- to make a good impression.

 

“Stop singing.”

 

 

 

 _What the fuck was that_ , he berates himself inwardly, unwilling to let himself meet this cute boy’s eyes.  
“I mean, shit, it’s… it’s midterms. I’m trying to study. If… that’s okay.” After a pause he adds a, “My earphones broke.”

 

It takes a hot second before the guy’s eyes go wide with understanding. “Oh no! I’m… this whole time?” He brings his hand up to his lips, mortified, like some kind of fucking cartoon prince and Seung-Gil might actually start to sob- holy shit, he’s so fucking cute.

“You’re my neighbor, right?”

 

“Right.”

 

“Oh god, I’m so embarrassed, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I must have been so loud, and- _oh my god_.” His face goes red and the color climbs down under the collar of his shirt and Seung-Gil’s knees start to wobble. “Please forgive me. Is- Can I make it up to you? I’ll shut up now, I swear.”

 

 

Mystery man lunges forward and grips Seung-Gil’s wrist between his two delicate hands, giving the starting gun to a shiver that starts Usain Bolt-ing up his spine. “It’s okay. Just- Quieter.” He stutters as if he doesn’t have a 4.0 in English.

“It’s not bad- just loud. You sing… beautifully. “

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

As it turns out, Phichit (as he introduced himself as) is a man of his word, and followed through on his promises to make it up to him.

Seung-Gil realized this as he made one (1) step out his door and found Phichit waiting for him with a paper starbucks bag in his hand and a short latte in the other.

 

“I don’t know how you like your coffee- or, oh god, if you even like coffee- but I have 2 creamers and 2 sugars in here, one brown, one white, I don’t know you seem to be a brown sugar kind of guy but I didn’t want to assume.”

 

Seung-Gil realized belatedly that he was supposed to accept the peace offering of sorts, and that he was literally just standing there and gawking at Phichit for what seemed like a short eternity.

“That’s- thank you. You didn’t have to… It’s redundant. You already said sorry.”

 

“I know, but, I still feel bad. I hope you were able to study well.” Phichit beams, overflowing with caprice, and his eyes get little wrinkles at the corners, “Good luck later, alright?”

 

 

Seung-Gil wants to turn around and hikikomori himself until the end of time, but somehow manages to let out a sound that resembles “”calm and collected gratitude””.

Or at least somewhat, until he saw the ecriture on the paper bag- a tiny doodle in black marker of the thumbs up emoji.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“One more time.” Jean blinks slowly at him, making the expression that convey a buffering screen.

 

Seung-Gil nurses the coffee container between his chest and his lips, slouching so bad that his back is flat against the seat of his chair. He’s run out of drink, but he chews lightly on the rim of the cup- an anxious tick he’s had since he was a child (evident in his chewed up pencils).

There’s a crick developing at his neck, but he doesn’t want to move because he’s willing to believe that maybe if he tries hard enough, he can be one with the chair and transcend into another plane of existence absent of stupid little crushes on your broadway-addicted neighbor.

 

“I already said it, the annoying guy next door is annoying cute and I want to move.”

 

“It’s 2 months in the semester, and you’re telling me you’ve never met the guy before? Are you some kind of hermit?”

 

“And you sound surprised?” Seung-Gil quips, trying to straighten his back, but only succeeding in pushing his chair back, metal legs scrapping against the floor. “I didn’t come to you to be judged- I came to you because I want to switch rooms.”

 

“Nu-uh, no way. Yuuri Plisetsky lives down the hall and I still have a bet with Altin that I’ll get him to warm up to me by the end of the sem.”

 

“He’s probably like you better when he sees you less.”

 

“Ah, distance makes the heart grow fonder, you mean?” JJ considers, gingerly propping up his chin against his fist.

 

“…Sure.” Seung-Gil rolls his eyes, not the least bit surprised that JJ missed the point entirely anymore. “My dorm building is closer to Isabella.”

 

JJ waves his hand off, “Nice try, but you can’t bribe me like that. Isabella and I have matching schedules, I walk her back every day anyway.” The Korean tries to imagine having to see JJ every waking hour of his life and predicts his face going pale from the horror.

Conspiratorially, he leans closer to Seung-Gil, who is still trying to untangle himself from bad posture. “Plus, I think your boner for this Phi-fella might finally get you out of your room for a change.”

 

 

“Keep your voice down!” Seung-Gil hisses. His darts around the lunchroom.

 

“Oh calm down, Gil-Gil, holy shit.” JJ runs a hand through the undercut he denies he got because he liked it on Otabek Altin. “Don’t be so on edge- just let it happen. I’m sure this… uh… what’s-his-name, I’m sure at the very least he won’t be completely repulsed by you.”

 

 

“Gee. Thanks.” The Korean grumbles dryly. “And it’s Phichit. Dumbass.”

 

He turns towards his “friend”, but finds his face surprisingly blank. Seung-Gil raises an eyebrow at him. “What?”

 

“What was that last part?”

 

“Um- Dumbass?”

 

“You have a crush on Phichit Chulanont?!”

 

In ample terror, Seung-Gil reaches forward, gripping the hood of JJ’s Canadian hoodie, and pulls him down against the table, effectively slamming his jaw shut.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Apparently, Seung-Gil lives farther inside the closet than he previously anticipated; everyone knows who Phichit Chulanont is.

 

For the past 25 minutes, Seung-Gil has been scrolling down the expansive feed of one phi+chu on Instagram, and has not found an end in sight. It’s as if his eyes are being assaulted by so many fun-looking and attractive people, places, food, and selfies: fodder for the rose-tinted daydreams he’s discovered himself falling into.

 

It’s been 5 days since he’s last seen Phichit, and he regrets to admit that he kept the paper bag folded between the pages of his Philosophy book like how middle-aged white women do to preserve dried flowers from their lovers.

In an attempt to minimize how often he fucks up social interaction, Seung-Gil has elected to be extra early to class and return extra late. It’s not that he’s avoiding Phichit, he’s just….

 

 

Avoiding…. Phichit……. Hm…..

 

 

 

 

 

 

He recalls why he never used the library as his solace in the by-gone days of Phichit’s harmonizing bleeding through the wallpaper; Sara Crispino practically lives there.

For all intents and purposes, she’s not completely unbearable- unlike that twin brother of hers. It’s just that he can do without the constant scrutiny when he’s trying to be in the zone.

 

“Do you mind?” He says loud enough behind his Theology readings, hoping to jostle her out of the staring contest she’s having with the top of his head as he’s bent over to read the tiny print.

 

 

Instead of the coquettish giggling she usually does, she’s unnervingly silent.

 

Seung-Gil looks up, a little alarmed.

 

“You seem different.” She purses her lips and brushes a long strand of hair out of the way.

 

“I’m staying up late, leave me alone.” Seung-Gil returns to his theses about contradicting Catholic values.

 

“All of us are, dummy.” Sara takes his readings out of his hands, to Seung-Gil’s chagrin. “Even if you’re like super tired, you don’t act… _like this._ Something’s wrong.”

 

“Act like what?” Seung-Gil bites out, trying to steal back his papers.

 

 

“Seung-Gil Lee, you’ve been reading the same page for 20 minutes.”

 

“I’m… really trying to understand it.”

 

“You’re a speed-reader.” Sara cocks an eyebrow.

 

“I have off-days.” Seung-Gil is affronted to hear his own voice getting squeakier.

 

Sara pulls the readings into her lap to keep them out of the Korean’s reach. “What are you distracted by?”

 

Exasperated and definitely embarrassed, because the adjacent table’s seaters have started to look their way, Seung-Gil barks out a dismissive,

“No one!” before taking his bag out from underneath his seat to make a point of her trespassing of his personal space.

 

 

Crispino lets out a tiny gasp. “No one… not “nothing”?” She leans closer, whispering, “Do you have a crush on someone?”

 

Seung-Gil rips his papers off from Sara’s lap and stomps away angrily, almost butting heads with JJ who has a small bruise forming on his chin. He smiles his goofy King JJ smile and Seung-Gil wants to give him another bruise.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“So I heard you have a crush on Phichit Chulanont.”

 

“Do I know you?!” Seung-Gil all but barks at the silver-haired stranger’s face. His face immediately darkens, “Where did you hear that from? Not that it’s true…”

He’s already begun to list down the possibly soon-to-be homicide victims in his head, starting with one Jean-Jaques Leroy, and following a Sara Crispino.

 

The stranger who’s got him cornered outside the lecture hall makes a vague gesture, “That’s not important. My name is Viktor Nikiforov-”

 

“You’re making a scene.”

 

“-and I’m attempting to woo Katsuki Yuuri.” He smiles a brilliant, confident smile, but Seung-Gil figures that mostly to his own self.

He knows Katsuki Yuuri, though. The track athlete is a strange one- but he’s civil. He volunteered information when Seung-Gil was absent to a previous session in Theo131. Good guy.

“The problem is I cannot get my lovely Yuuri alone because he is always with his best friend.”

 

“And this matters to me, because…?”

 

The Russian (if Seung-Gil identifies the accent accurately) pouts. “Yuuri’s best friend is Phichit. I was hoping I could prompt you to distract him so I can make my move, and maybe you can make yours. Win-Win.”

Seung-Gil has never been known to be one to beat around the bush; he says what he means and means what he says. With this in mind, he says “Fuck off” and he means it.

 

He can hear the crazy Viki-what’s-his-face yell after him, something about trying again, but he’s blocked out the entire world by his fourth stride away.

 

 

 

 

 

The next time Seung-Gil sees Phichit Chulanont is days later, hyperventilating on the staircase.

It’s not a passage that’s often used. The windows are unclean and the steps are covered in grime. Phichit doesn’t care, if the way he’s curled up against the railing is any indication. He’s got this deer-in-the-headlights look when they lock eyes, but his composure relaxes after a moment- probably when he realized it’s not anyone threatening.

Which is ridiculous, because Seung-Gil has been priding himself on the fact that he can walk through a hall in the peak of rec-week and not once be stopped to accept a flyer or hear why the band club needs him in particular for their great cause.

 

He forgets the class he has in 5 minutes and sits down.

 

 

“What brings you to this side of the woods?”  


“I should be asking you first. You look like you-” the next words behind Seung-Gil’s teeth were ‘ _were about to cry_ ’, but he realized that that may hit too close to home by the way the rims of Phichit’s eyes were red.

“…Are having a hard time.”

 

Look at him. Having empathy. His mother would be so proud.

 

 

On Phichit’s lap is a stack of papers, but they’re not readings. They have little neon tags on the sides and from what Seung-Gil can see, the font of the first page is in gaudy Courier New.

Phichit gestures to the bundle of lines. “Audition.” He pauses, then smiles, “Not the movie. The- I have an audition, I mean.”

“What movie?” Seung-Gil blurted out before it dawned on him that that’s not what he should be fixated on.

 

“It’s a cool sort of surreal body horror kind of-”

“What are you auditioning for?”

Phichit feigns indignation, puffing out his cheeks, “I can’t believe you’re not interested to hear about the widely acclaimed-”

“Phichit.”

 

The Thai smiles softly before releasing the air in his cheeks. “I’m auditioning to be Melchior Gabor for the new production of Spring Awakening.” His shoulders sag, “It’s just… I’m nervous.”

 

“I won’t lie. I have never once heard about that play before in my life.” Seung-Gil confesses, watching the motion of Phichit’s shoulders rising and falling.

“Really? It’s a pretty intense rock and roll play about adolescents learning about- y’know- their bodies, and figuring out about sex and things.”

“Sex and things.” Seung-Gil echoes, wondering what a baby-faced guy like Phichit wants to do with such a crass and crude composition.

“Sex and things.” Phichit confirms with a nod.

 

 

“And, uh,” Seung-Gil knows he has no time for this conversation if he wants to keep himself far from tardy. He also knows that Phichit’s fingernails are chewed raw- from anxiety, most likely.

There’s a force beyond his understand that’s keeping his ass on the dusty staircase, and he’s a little too jaded trying to avoid both Phichit and JJ to fight back. “Is that why you’re nervous? About the… sex and things?”

 

“Pfft- No way!” He laughs, his nose crinkling up, “I was Dr. Frank-N-Furter in Rocky Horror Picture Show last year! I rocked those fishnets and high heels!”

“Moving on.” Seung-Gil mumbles mostly to himself, willing away thoughts of aforementioned fishnets and high heels.

“It’s just that I’ve never tried something like this… modern… rock and roll… I don’t know.” Phichit worries his bottom lip between his teeth, and the motion is captivating. “I don’t think it’ll fit me. It’s just that everyone expected me to be a part of this and I-”

 

 

Phichit never does complete that thought. His eyes train themselves on the nothing in front of him.

 

 

Seung-Gil wonders if this is the same Phichit that he heard belting out Defying Gravity on a Wednesday night. The one in front of him is completely devoid of confidence, seemingly swayed around by other people’s whims. The one in front of him seems just as lost as Seung-Gil is.

“I… have class.” He says for the lack of comforting words. “I should go.”

 

 

Phichit nods once. Then twice. He looks like he’s trying to make his lips quirk up, but can’t bring himself to. He’s disappointed. Honestly, Seung-Gil is too.

 

 

“I think-” _what are you doing_ , he internally yells. “You should trust what you think is right.” He finishes, voice intentionally monotone, as he descends down the stairwell.

For a moment, he thinks he saw Phichit smile.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Two mornings later, Seung-Gil wakes up to that song from Moana.


	2. Crisis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> chapter alternatively called **Chris** is.
> 
>  
> 
>  **Chris** is what?  
>  the only sensible one, clearly.

He’s actually never seen the movie, but the damn song keeps popping up on his daily playlist in Spotify. The melody is the same, if only a tad bit slower, as if Phichit had just woken up and can’t bring himself to his 100%. Or more worryingly, he’s upset.

 

Seung-Gil is still in his tacky pitbull shirt and checkered blue pajama bottoms, with their ends all frayed from being dragged on the ground. He’s never cared about his wardrobe and won’t start today, he tells himself. However, there’s a little pang of clawing insecurity in his gut when he knocks on Phichit’s door.

Seung-Gil writes that off as morning haziness.

 

“Phichit.” He says through the door.

“Seung-Gil.” The door answers back, immediately.

 

 

Phichit looks fresh-faced despite the tussle his hair is in. Good moisturizer, Seung-Gil would assume. “Good morning and thank you.”

 

At Seung-Gil’s cocked eyebrow, Phichit carries forward, forearm braced against the doorframe, “What you said got me thinking about how I really want to be spending my free time. I don’t want to be stagnant, I feel like that’ll set me off into self-destruction or something crazy like that. I also feel that… I-” He exhales all of a sudden.

“I’m sorry, I’m rambling. You just woke up.”

 

“It’s okay.” Seung-Gil finds himself saying without permission from his brain. He realizes he must look like a fucking mess, especially in Phichit’s presence.

 

After eyeing Seung-Gil warily, his neighbor continues his tangent after a short pause.

“I didn’t get the part.”

 

With complete surprise, nothing on Phichit’s face betrays dissatisfaction, so Seung-Gil thinks he may have heard it wrong. He’s never been a part of an extracurricular club that would warrant an audition being held, but he’s well aware that it’s supposed to be something important.

 

Prompted by radio silence, Phichit continues, “I botched it on purpose.”

“…Why?”

“I don’t want to be a quitter. I don’t want people to think of me that way. But I also knew this wasn’t what I wanted…” Phichit raises his hands and acts as if he’s weighing objects in them to elevate his point.

 

“But aren’t you humiliated that it now seems like you’re below your actual capabilities?” Seung-Gil can’t catch up with Phichit’s way of thinking, eyes absorbed on Phichit’s nails and how they’re nicely filed now.

The hands fall to Phichit’s sides.

 

“I guess.” He exhales roughly. By the way his expression morphs into something darker, Seung-Gil would hit the nail on the head. Probably too hard.

“But I don’t want to- You see where I’m coming from, right? I can always chalk it up to a bad day, or…” He’s losing steam. Phichit then asks him the last thing he ever wants to be asked, “What do you think?”

 

Unfortunately for the two of them, Seung-Gil is not well-versed in pep talks as he is in tactless honesty. Seung-Gil finds a stray eyelash next to Phichit’s right eye and can’t stop looking at it. And if he catalogues all the colors in a seemingly stale gray iris, then that’s just because he was already there.

For the lack of anything reassuring, he goes with the truth,

“I don’t know much about where you’re coming from because, well, I’ve never been in that situation.” Seung-Gil casts his gaze lower, feeling heat creep up his neck, “I just think for sure that you sing too good to be so careless about selling yourself short. It’s an insult to your abilities.”

 

 

 

 

 

That’s the last thing in a long time that Seung-Gil actively tells the truth.

The next few weeks are a scattering of white lies and running to his next classes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“And he said **_what_**?!?” Phichit flailed his arms around for good measure.

Seung-Gil has resigned himself to the fact that Phichit is just too damn enchanting to be irritated at the glob of peach-mango-blueberry shake that lands on his white shirt.

He lifts up his finger to it and pops the juice into his mouth; Seung-Gil secretly hopes that Phichit would overreact some more because his drink tastes pretty good from what he can tell.

 

“Yeah,” Seung-Gil looks up to find Phichit staring at him strangely. Mystified, but still trying to remember the weird Russian’s name, he rambles off possibilities, “Vi… Vincent… Vernon…. V… Vladimir.”

 

“Oh my god, I can’t believe you met Putin.” Phichit cooed dryly with a straight face. It’s a habit he’s said he had recently picked up from Seung-Gil himself, and he can’t help but preen.

 “Oh my god, Viktor Nikiforov was gonna pay you to get Yuuri alone?” After Seung-Gil shrugs, guessing that must be the identity of the man in question, Phichit all but squealed into the open quad, incredulity marring his features.

 

As if it shouldn’t, considering how it wasn’t true. But the start of the sentence was already out there, and Seung-Gil had no intention to divulge what’s being said about him and Phichit behind their backs (more of Phichit’s back than anything- JJ and Sara still confront Seung-Gil face-first about “developments”).

 

“Yes.” He lies.

 

“You should have taken it!”

“And extorted money from a student?”

“You could have given me half! Win-Win.” The latter phrase sent shivers up Seung-Gil’s spine- a feat that Phichit tends to do without ever knowing it- but this time, it’s one of dread.

“You should make it up to me.” Phichit knocks his foot against Seung-Gil’s shin softly.

 

There’s a stack of books between them, but they still feel too close. Seung-Gil stiffens, “How does that make sense? I’ll pay you back for money that you weren’t even going to have?”

 

“If you love me, yeah.” Phichit’s eyes roll and it’s only a fraction of the rolling motion in Seung-Gil’s guts. It’s like when you twist a fork in some pasta. It’s like that, but in his stomach, tangling up all his insides to an unsightly but bite-sized mound.

His internal monologue has been getting so morbid ever since Phichit pestered him to watch Audition.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Ready for our lunch date?” Phichit finger-guns him from across the Black Box stage. Seung-Gil really wishes his charcoal jacket is helping him camouflage into the darkness.

He’s much too aware that his friend is only kidding- which, by itself, is disheartening enough. But now there’s a handful of people who turned to his direction at Phichit’s outburst and he’s ready to call off their lunch get-together and go to the class he should be going to.

 

But watching Phichit attempt to remove himself from the spun red and yellow tinsel with no avail sways Seung-Gil to decide that he can always catch up another time.

 

Despite finding himself in the production crew for the first time in his theatre life- which to Phichit, is his entire life- and being a little pathetic at it too, the Thai’s open attitude to be taught and collaborate hasn’t dimmed his luster.

And here, Seung-Gil had been hoping that with luck, perhaps adding this boy to his daily routine will wear off the figurative shine and reinstate Phichit as another everyday character to his constant grind through college.

Phichit is still sparkling.

 

 

He’s been hanging around the simplistic stage almost every day now. The other club members have actually begun greeting him by name (while they shoot him knowing looks). Truly, he wants to kick all of them in their faces, only so they don’t see how easily he blushes at the insinuation.

 

 

While he's busy thinking of ways to make it less obvious to the world that he's harboring a deep and piteous affection for Phichit Chulanont, Seung-Gil feels a presence come forward behind him.

Hoping at best it's just a club member ferrying a prop from one end of the room to another, and at worst it's JJ who has come to plague his existence, Seung-Gil ignores the attendance of a stranger looming over him.

 

Phichit, free of tinsel, waves to him from where he stands and gestures to the back of the stage. Seung-Gil nods once, watching Phichit go get his things. Be it shouting, or non-verbal cues, Seung-Gil can't help but feel that everyone around them is constantly observing all their little interactions. He catches the eye of some Chinese-looking fellow before he continues painting some sintra board a muted yellow, clearly intimidated.

At least it's definitive that Seung-Gil hasn't completely lost his edge.

 

Suddenly, there's soft laughter that makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He turns to ask the weird creep that's obviously standing way too close to fuck off,

instead of hearing the sound of his own annoyance, Seung-Gil hears the stranger croon "Lunch date, huh?"

 

There’s a man much taller than he that looks at him wryly with a hint of delight bouncing in his green eyes. He’s got a hand perched on his hip and a sassy attitude emanating from him that nearly suffocates Seung-Gil on the spot.

He purses his lip as he speaks as if he’s trying hard not to smile,

“Shouldn’t we be getting to class or is there a free cut I don’t know about?”

 

 

Only then did it dawn upon Seung-Gil that he recognizes (or should recognize) the person before him. That blond mop has been plaguing his right peripheral this entire semester because the teacher wants them seated in alphabetical order and Giacometti is too tall.

 

 

 

His stomach drops as the pieces click into place in his head.

How many times has this classmate of his witnessed Seung-Gil leave with Phichit and not attend his following class? Has he been talking about it with his peers? Did he think that Phichit and he were... an item?

 

 

Fear, frigid and paralyzing, cloys through Seung-Gil's entirety like a parasite.

 

 

 

 

 

Studying him in the same manner a deer would study a bear to gauge if they’ll attack or let him be, Seung-Gil too is contemplating if he’ll be eaten alive at this very moment.

To his relief, instead of flagging Phichit over, Chris only mirrors his once-overs, only less troubled and more amused. Still, the way his eyes sparkle is disconcerting.

“Don’t be scared, I won’t tell him. However, there is something I want…”

 

Seung-Gil grits his teeth. “Are you going to blackmail me right now?”

He thinks about how whipped he’ll be perceived as- to someone who he’s not even romantically attached to, no less. God, to someone who may not even view him as a viable candidate for romantic attraction in the first place. Shit, is Phichit even gay?!

 

“Jesus, calm down.” The blond makes fanning motions with his hands, as if he’s trying to physically clear the tension between them. Seung-Gil wonders if theatre club makes people dramatic or if dramatic people are naturally drawn to theatre club. “I just want you to hear me out. Okay?”

 

“…Okay.” Seung-Gil tells Giacometti-from-Lit-class absently. Mostly because the taunting behavior is already grating him, but also because he’s still trying to figure out if there was ever any real indication that Phichit is a homosexual or maybe even a bisexual in the time they’ve spent together.

 

“I’m no stranger to doing everything in my power to be with a person I fancy.” The blond begins like a soliloquy, “But I have been struck with the realization- no, the **_recognition_** long ago that bending yourself like a flower in a storm to the whims of another, even that of an intended, is not only disrespectful to yourself but also to them.”

Giacometti breaks eye contact to gaze longingly to the space above Seung-Gil’s head. His accent becomes softer, voice now more sincere.

“Treat the person you love like an actual person. It may seem cute at first that you would sacrifice anything for them, but true love is wanting to cultivate each other into being better versions of yourselves. You can’t do that if you allow them to walk all over you- more so without calling attention to the fact that you are allowing yourself to be walked over.”

 

The word ‘true love’ made Seung-Gil snap to attention- more from disbelief that it was thrown in casual context than from embarrassment.

“You’re making such a big deal out of this!” He sneers, keeping his voice low in case someone may have overheard Giacometti’s sappy and incriminating monologue. “It’s just a few classes! Sir Yakov doesn’t even take attendance and-”

 

Giacometti claps, disposition changing to a different character altogether. “This whole time?! You mean I could have just read the readings and show up for exams this whole time?”

He takes Seung-Gil’s expression- somewhere caught between discomfiture and astonishment- as a sign of confirmation and throws his bag on the floor. He calls over to someone behind Seung-Gil, “Matthieu! Babe! Let’s have lunch, yes?”

 

With that, the blond winks to Seung-Gil before sashaying exaggeratedly towards this Mattieu person. The abrupt loneliness forces the Korean to review the avalanche of hearty sentiment he’s been forcibly subject to.

 

He can spot Phichit round the corner behind a set piece that looks like an alley corner. He’s wearing a white romper with a denim jacket tied around his waist. Seung-Gil would have some choice words to say about that outfit if it were anyone else.

 

 

 _But it’s not anyone else_ , Seung-Gil is led to understand, _it’s Phichit_.

 

 

 

With wild beating in his chest, he lists of some array of excuses and cancels their plans without once ever looking Phichit in the eyes. The Thai has stopped in his tracks an arm’s length away, stance concerned and surprised.

Seung-Gil must be in a whole other dimension of whipped if he can be conveyed that from feet position alone. “Next time.” He bades before he bolts out of the black box theatre.

 

 

 

 

It’s 4 minutes past the bell when he arrives in Yakov’s class. The old professor may not be bothered by attendance, but he hates being interrupted by arriving tardy students. He gives Seung-Gil a hard look before asking the poor sap in the front row where he left off.

 

As he sits himself down and faces forward, he notices that his right peripheral is free of distraction.

 

His heart however, is not.


End file.
